


Sorry to Disturb You, But

by Goldmonger



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, Character Study, Episode: s15e12 Galaxy Brain, Gen, Stream of Consciousness, god the world-killer, insert 'what a twist!' meme here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23312752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldmonger/pseuds/Goldmonger
Summary: Let's put it like this:The universe is a buzzing fly in a quiet room, and Chuck has a book to finish.
Relationships: Chuck Shurley & Everyone
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Sorry to Disturb You, But

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from XTC's ['Dear God'.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p554R-Jq43A)

_The chair screeches obnoxiously against the floor when Sam pushes it back, the noise piercing his skull like a blade. He swears softly and hunches over, fingers massaging his temple. His hands are cold from his continuous note-taking in the draughty library, and it is almost enough to offer a modicum of relief to his throbbing headache._

_“Sam?”_

_Dean’s voice rumbles, low like the Impala’s engine. It should be comforting, but it grates, oddly, a reminder of his duties, of his endless –_

Pleaseohpleasejesuschristgodinheavenihaveservedyouallmylifesavemyfamilymydaughtersheisstillachildthestormsaresoloudicannotprotectherpleasegodiwilldoanythinganythingyouask

_\- responsibility to his brother. Dean’s boots tramp up the steps, casually irreverent, and that irks him too._

_“Sam, I was looking for you. You didn’t hear me call?”_

_Sam’s migraine is worsening, a sharp pain behind his eyes that feels familiar, in a sickening way. It recalls Ruby, anger, bright light in an abandoned church. Dean is closer now, hovering._

_“Sam –,”_

_“Stop,” Sam says, both to the burgeoning cloud in his mind and the man before him. Wet warmth trickles from his nose to salt his parting lips and the pain rises –_

Inthenameofthefatherthesonandtheholyspiritiaskyoulordtopreservemyfamilyfromthisdevastationthefirehastakenourhomeicanseetheflamesthesmokechokesmychildrenmyhusband

_\- suddenly, taking hold of him and blocking everything else. He remembers killing demons by harnessing this pain, ripping their essences from a vessel and annihilating the life within. Alastair and Lillith had been victims of this ability, Sam knows, and the violent memory of their murders sparks a jolt of fear that crests and turns into a deluge of agony. He cries out and crashes to his knees, gasping. He is not in control this time._

_“Sam!”_

_Dean grabs him, and what gives him the right? He feels the agony burst, and ripple outward, –_

Icallonyougodtosavemenowiamsorryihaveneverbeenthemostfaithfuliknowthisiknowiamasinnerpleasesavemefromthisdiseaseandiwillbecomeachoirboyapriestafuckingnunanythingiamsorryiamsosorryamenamenamen

_\- a boundless power, a flood of death that –_

Godthewaterwillkillusallpleasemydaddywasthepiousmannotmebutiwillbeonetooifyousaveuspleasegodpleasemywifeiswithchildineedtoseemybabybreatheplease

_\- envelops the bunker, and Dean –_

MYCHILDMYONLYSONGODSAVEHIMLORD

_\- falls bloody –_

HELPMEJESUSGODANYONE

_\- to the fissuring floorboards –_

FATHERPLEASE

Chuck stands, lifts his ergonomic stool over his head, and brings it down on his vintage Remington typewriter, purchased only a few days prior in a haze of productivity that included universal Armageddon. The table that holds the device shatters into firewood, and the typewriter itself is split into shards of cold-rolled steel, keys bouncing like teeth knocked loose in a fight. Delicate sheets of paper flutter to cover the mess, ink dribbling dark tears over the few paragraphs he’d managed to grit out.

“Well, fuck,” he says, breathing heavily. The exertion, his Wrath, had cost him. That never used to happen. That is not supposed to happen.

There is a symphony of torment ricocheting around his head from his previous judgements, leaving him sweat-sheened and lethargic.

That is not supposed to happen either.

He dithers for half a beat before coming to the conclusion that he’s being overworked. Too much of one thing would overwhelm anyone, and feeding a billion billion realities into a meat-grinder is frying his busy circuit boards. It will prove an easy fix, he’s sure. Eventually.

He considers stooping to tidy the mess he’s made, using his feeble human hands to sweep and repair and assemble. The prospect cloys for some reason, disgusts him on a primal level. It’s simpler – cleaner, really – to will his writing materials back together instead. No point wasting time on the petty stuff.

The equipment zips itself back together in a nanosecond. Chuck sighs with relief and takes stock of his study, an unassuming lounge inside a bucolic cottage that belongs to an elderly farmer and his wife. Or used to, anyway. It’s the perfect spot to relax and devise the Winchesters’ end, a calm and introspective environment in which –

**ourfatherwhoartinheavenhallowedbethynamethykingdomcomethywillbedoneonearthasitisinheaven**

-fuck –

**holymarymotherofgodprayforussinnersnowandatthehourofourdeathamen**

The writing desk is powder, then atoms. The typewriter floats in mid-air, immaculate, then explodes and retracts, a cycle that repeats a hundred times before Chuck convinces himself to stop, to let it fall.

**inthenameofthefatherthesonandtheholyspirit**

Trillions bluster and blather and perish in hordes, but not as quickly as he’d hoped, and they’re loud. Loud and distracting. They are titanic blinders affixed to his being that obscure the Winchesters and their pathetic but entertaining attempts at rebellion, their newest little misadventure of the week driven behind mountains of the dead and dying. He hates it.

Chuck slumps beside his typewriter, which is finally lying still, and in pieces.

He hates it, he hates it, and he is the forgiving Lord but he finds that laid out on the hardwood flooring of a couple blinked out of existence on his whim he is able to hate with a passion. He tastes Wrath like metal on his tongue. He can hear the draining of thousands of millions of worlds into oblivion. He knows their suffering.

PLEASEGOD

SAVEME

INTHENAMEOFTHEFATHER

He knows it like he can map out veins in a human body, can organise the striations of their muscles and fold their intestines, order their nerves and splay the elastic of their skin. It’s familiar. They are his specialty.

PLEASE

They are _annoying_.

“Shut up,” he whispers, into a silence that is thick enough, almost, to touch. Within him the screams echo, resound off the walls of reality into infinity, and he summons the rage, the righteous fury at their inconvenience. He can burn them away faster if he operates manually, and the work will give him something to think about besides how much he wishes he’d done this sooner.

PLEASEGOD

ILOVEYOUFATHER

IGIVEMYSELFTOYOULORD

“All you had to do was be quiet,” he says to nothing that can listen. “All you had to do was give me time to write.” He scrunches his eyes shut, pictures waterfalls of fire, a hurricane that engulfs a planet. “I need to make sure they do what I want, okay? I need to make them right.”

He rocks, like a madman, but he’s not a man, and there is no being alive that would survive calling him mad.

“I just want to write,” he hisses, steam that sprays from an ocean-turned-geyser, scalding a continent. “I can’t concentrate,” he groans, as magma bubbles over cities, ozone layers rip and ladder like stockings, pandemics roar across nations and make beasts out of people.

LORD

GOD

CHRIST

FATHER

PLEASE

It’s quietening down, he thinks. Spittle flecks his chin and his eyes roll in his head and he notices that in his excitement, he has thrust his hands into the detritus of the typewriter, wounding him. He cradles his hands to his chest, and tries to pick out the screws embedded in either palm. It takes a while.

He stares at the resulting weeping holes for so long he doesn’t register the gaping void in his head until something stirs in the still-living Kansas. Something magical, mischievous, tantalisingly divine.

He perks up.

“Got them,” he says, to no-one, and scrambles to his feet with a grin. Enough of the other worlds are dead now. He can watch them with almost his entire attention, tug their strings and focus his entire, re-invigorated Wrath like a spotlight.

Next to him the typewriter is whole. It falls apart. It is perfect. It’s in pieces.


End file.
